Deathstroke Unlimited
by Captain Deadpool
Summary: Slade Wilson. Deathstroke the Terminator. Un-cencored and un-diluted. Unlimited forever. An ongoing series. I put it in the DC Superheroes category because the story will use characters from across the DCU, not just the Teen Titans.
1. She Missed He Didn't

**Deathstroke Unlimited**

**A Re-Imagining of Slade Wilson**

By

Captain Deadpool

_Disclaimer: Deathstroke and any related properties are the property of DC Comics._

**Chapter One: She Missed and He Didn't**

_**Captain's Log: **__I bet you are all surprised that I did this. I recently got into Deathstroke the Terminator; so naturally, first thing I do is look for fan fiction. Sadly, the selection is limited, so I decided to do a fic that has or will have a bit of everything. _

_In that spirit, there will probably be some 'sympathy for the devil'-type moments, but I'm going to keep that to a minimum because that's not what this is about. It's about Deathstroke, and those who know the character best know that he doesn't apologize and he doesn't deny the things he's done. He's nearly incapable of tender emotions. On top of that, I'm not going to follow strict canon for Deathstroke or the DCU in general very strictly._

_I'm not disrespecting anybody (we all have our tastes, and that's fine) but I am giving you a fair warning: If you can't stand the heat get out of the oven now because things are about to get crispy . . ._

As a rich child, he was considered a genius and a martial arts protégé by his tutors. His life bored him greatly, so he gave up everything he had, joining the Army by lying about his age at fifteen when America entered Vietnam in 1959. His combat prowess impressed his superiors so much that he was chosen for a special super soldier program designed to increase all of his abilities. They succeeded. His strength increased tenfold, his reflexes became inhuman, and his mental abilities, which were already impressive, doubled.

Unfortunately there were unforeseen side effects, both good and bad. His lust for violence increased and his sympathy for both friend and foe decreased. Over time, his heart became increasingly colder and harder to the point where he could hardly be called human anymore. His age had also slowed down considerably. He wouldn't know just how much until later, but as of the present the only sign of his age is his snow white hair. Scared, the officers in control of the Terminator project sent their best soldiers, Wintergreen, to kill Slade before he could no longer be controlled.

Wintergreen was ultimately unsuccessful, but Slade spared his life because he had known he was coming with his intelligence network and he knew who was to blame. He defected from the army in disgust, and Wintergreen defected with him in gratitude for his mercy. They were unable to try him for treason because that would require that they admit what they had done illegally themselves. Using his status as a liability, Slade threatened to expose them if they came after him or Wintergreen.

Year: 1985

He did not seek revenge- all that mattered to him after being betrayed by his country was personal success. And success is what Slade "The Terminator" Wilson achieved. He had a wife, three kids, a lucrative career as an assassin and mercenary (that his wife and kids knew nothing about), and a home that was fit for television. Little did he know that his entire world and delusions of perfection would soon come to an end.

The kids had been tucked into bed and Slade, looking every bit the fatherly figure he truly wasn't, was sitting in his living room reading the evening paper when his wife dropped the first bomb on him.

"Honey, we need to talk," said Mrs. Adeline Wilson as she walked in from the kitchen, "Something has been bothering me lately."

He looked up from his paper and for a brief moment he looked threatening, but before she could blink a pleasant smile crept onto his face and he looked like the Slade she _thought _she knew. She had convinced herself on the surface that whatever he had been through he was now a good man and had put the past behind him, but deep inside she knew that was bullshit.

Slade Wilson did not love his family. The most positive emotions his soul could muster were mild amusement, morbid curiosity, and carnal pleasure. He respected his wife (otherwise he wouldn't have married her) and that was enough for him and it was more than most wives got at the time. Any affection she needed he would be willing to fake in the name of success. It was the only thing that truly mattered, and any affection she needed for the sake of their marriage he could fake.

"Oh, boy. Nothing good ever comes out of a woman's mouth when they say that. Well, I'm not going anywhere, dear. Shoot," as he put down his paper, his mind was already calculating ways to get her off the subject if she was going to say what he thought she was going to say.

She sat down in his lap and wrapped an arm around his shoulder. She was trying hard to keep eye contact up, but it was never an easy thing to do with Slade. He had the eyes of a predator.

"I'm worried about you. The way you were at the Davis' party got me thinking about some things."

"Did I do anything wrong? I mingled a bit, just like you said I should. There were some nice _(read: boring)_ people there," he defended himself, "But you know my . . . condition makes those kinds of things hard for me," he had given her a mostly accurate account of his previous life, and she knew about his enhancements. Still, he thought his performance was fantastic. He'd even made a point to spill some whine on that crabby old hostess 'accidently', and damn him if it wasn't the most excitement she or her guests had had at that snooze fest.

"No, you did fine. TOO fine, actually. You always try so hard at everything, even looking natural. I know you spilt that wine on purpose," and then she grinned, "And I also know you were bored out of your skull just as much as I was. I took you there to get you out of the house and meet with people. When was the last time you went out with the guys or did anything on your own besides work?"

He was amused. So much so that his half-assed smile _nearly_ became sincere. He'd known he'd picked a winner, even if she did have a doctorate in psychology. It's true that a stupid woman would have been less trouble, but not nearly as stimulating. It made saying "I love you," when he didn't mean it much easier.

"I tell you what, if it'll make you feel better, I'll go get some 'guys' and go drinking Friday," he then he teased, "Might even pick me a mistress or two up while I'm at it."

She slapped him. It nearly sent him into shock. Not the slap of course- he'd barely felt it- but the fact that he misjudged her reaction. He thought she'd laugh, forgive him, and go to bed. He'd promised to join her in an hour or so (he had to clean and maintain his weapons, which didn't take long for him) and that would be that. Instead she got up with a huff and said:

"Damn it, Slade! It's always 'if it'll make you feel better' or 'if you say so' or 'whatever you want'!" her back was turned to him, and he couldn't see her lovely face.

"You're not . . . happy?"

"No, I am not happy! I'm not happy at all!" she screeched at the ceiling.

"What will make you happy? I'll do anything!" and he would. Failure was not an option.

"I want to know something, " she paused, "Are you happy?"

"Ahhh . . ." he trailed off numbly. He hadn't prepared for this scenario.

"Do I make you happy? It's not a difficult question."

He disagreed, but didn't say so.

"Addie, you've given me three beautiful children and have stuck with me for what has been the best ten years of my life. Yes, I'd say that makes me happy!" 'this was a close one,' he inwardly sighed. But it wasn't over yet.

"That's bullshit and you know it."

"You should watch your language, cupcake, you don't know if the kids are really asleep or not . . ."

"Stuff it. I'm going to bed," and with that she went up the stairs to their bedroom.

"I'll be up in a moment!" he yelled when she was out of sight.

"Don't bother!" she yelled back.

Shit. This was bad. He wondered how the situation got so out of control? He should have anticipated this behavior. Slade was still up, planning ways to rectify the situation well into the twelve o' clock hour. He never thought about what happened as his fault. He did nothing wrong. If she behaved outside of her parameters, then it was her problem if he didn't respond correctly. Simply telling her this was counterproductive, so he went over other solutions instead.

_'Force is out of the question. That is my home turf. To win, I must confront her on her battlefield with her weapon of choice. Maybe a gift? No, I've given her plenty and she's still not happy. Maybe I should try not to be such a perfect husband? I've been taking only small jobs that I can finish in the course of a day so I can spend time with my family. That's it! I've been smothering her. Maybe if I take a month long 'business trip' she will feel better. If she cheats on me, all the better. Her guilt might make her stay. Lord knows the sex couldn't be better with any joke of a man she could find in a bar. . ."_

Just as he was about to go up and inform his wife about his pending 'business trip' that 'slipped his mind', he heard a sound coming from his middle child, Jericho's, room with his enhanced hearing. A normal person wouldn't have heard it, as the perpetrator clearly was being careful not to be heard, but to the Terminator, he might as well have been shouting, "I'VE COME TO ROB YOUR HOUSE!" Then he heard Jericho scream.

He jumped up from his recliner and up the stairs so quickly, a casual observer would think he's the Flash.

He arrived not a moment too soon. Someone was attempting to strangle his son. Faster than the human eye could follow, this same man was both torn away from his evil work by pinching the muscles in the man's arm to make his hands involuntarily release Jericho's neck and slamming him against the wall and pinning him down like a cop making a bust. He then whipped out the silenced pistol he kept on him or near him at all times and pointed it at the bastards head.

"Oh, hello brother," Wade croaked, "I see old age hasn't slowed you down . . . bastard."

"You are no brother of mine. And if memory serves, YOU were the bastard."

"Go. To. HELL!"

His wife entered the room with a hand gun.

"OH MY GOD! JERICHO! Slade, what's going on!"

"Hello, baby! I see you're still as hot as ever. Have you decided to come back to me after living with this hack of a merc . . ."

"He doesn't do that anymore!"

"Shut up now, Mr. Lafarge, or I blow your head off."

"Is that what he told you? Oh, he's quite a big shot . . ."

He didn't get the chance to finish. The pistol was silenced for just such an occasion. He pulled the trigger and his half-brother was dead. The Terminator wasn't much for sentiment or ceremony. And he always kept his word.

He went over to examine his son. His wife was still in shock. Fortunately, his quick action saved his son's life. However . . .

"His vocal cords are damaged; my brother wasn't playing around. He probably won't be able to talk again, but otherwise he should be fine."

He turned around and wasn't surprised at all to find a gun pointed at his head.

"He'll be fine? What kind of father . . ."

"Now, calm down. I assure you that if my son had actually been killed, Wade's death would have been slow and painful."

When she pulled the trigger, he dodged and fired back only because of his finely honed reflexes and superhuman agility. He would later think about this moment and wonder why she pulled the trigger. Perhaps it was just the moment. Perhaps she was just fed up with him. It didn't matter. What matters is that she missed his brain by a hair or two and that the Terminator never misses.

**Today's Bonus: Excerpt from the Diary of Adeline Wilson**

April 21, 1985 (after her spat with Slade, and on the eve of her death in my fiction)

_He's says he loves me every day, but I know he's lying. I've known for quite some time, but I didn't want to face him. I was afraid of what he'd do to me. I'd studied psychology in college because I thought it would help me understand my father and help me avoid men like him._

_I guess I succeeded. Slade is nothing like my father. He is cold and calculating and manipulates more subtly. I'd be impressed if I were on the outside. _

_Am I crazy? When I talked to Slade, he didn't hit me. He never has. In fact, he's never done anything to outright justify my suspicion that he is anything less than a loving husband and father. In ten years his mask has never broken. Is it even there?_

_Am I the one causing him pain?_

**Next Chapter: **His wife's funeral and dealing with the children.


	2. Chapter 1 point 5: Broken Child

**Deathstroke Unlimited**

By

Captain Deadpool

_Disclaimer: Deathstroke and any related properties are the property of DC Comics._

**Chapter 1.5: Broken Child**

_Captain's Log: This is not chapter 2, exactly, but it is important to the story. I think you guys will enjoy this. Also, there's a new poll up on my profile. I won't spoil the surprise, but I think you'll like it._

**10 minutes before the incident.**

Five-year-old Rose Wilson slept soundly in her oversized bed in a room that would have been considered fit for any princess. The blonde haired, blue eyed girl was blissfully unaware that her powers would manifest and she would receive her first prophetic vision; a vision so horrible that it would permanently scar her mind.

When it first came upon her, she did not wake. The images were dark and blurred, and she could only make out three figures. The images became more clear and distinct and she could make out three people. She became scared and tried to open her eyes, was as if they were welded shut. She could barely move her small body- to the casual observer it would appear that she was squirming under the sheets, as if having a nightmare.

The more vivid and real the image became, the less she could move until finally her body became limp, her motor control nonexistent. Her blonde in her hair faded away until only white remained, her skin became pale, and her eyes snapped open and she could finally see, but what she saw she could not understand. A gunshot rang in her head over and over again for a solid minute. Without a sound, she got out of bed and left and left her room.

William Randolph Wintergreen had been employed by the Terminator since his life was spared by him. He was well into his sixties but felt older, and while he was sturdy for his age, he looked as old as he felt. Serving the most successful assassin and mercenary in the world was stressful and frightening work that could age a man, after all. He was Slade's accountant, family bodyguard while Slade was away on business, chef, home school teacher, and generally the only person on Earth that the man trusted. Why? Aside from paying well and owing his live to the Terminator, there was a sense of duty.

His life didn't matter much to him and money . . . when did he have time to spend money? However, it isn't a stretch to say that he was the only thing keeping the Terminator from going out of control. He wasn't sure why, but for some reason Slade trusted him. He could argue with him and say he was wrong. Unlike so many other people who have tried Wintergreen was still alive. He suspected that one day he would cross the line and would be finished off.

On the night Adeline was murdered, Wintergreen was in his modest room (compared to the rest of the house), doing paper work. He hadn't undressed for bed yet, except to take off his coat. A gun was lying haphazardly by the papers that were currently being signed.

The door to his office-slash-bedroom opened slowly. Retaining his cool, he stopped what he was doing and put his fingers around the gun, not lifting it from the desk yet. No one could get past Master Slade, but better safe than sorry, right?

"Yes?"

"Wintergreen?" said a small, female voice. He relaxed and let go of the gun.

"Rose? What are you doing up so late . . ." and as he swiveled his chair around to face his guest- Rose was easily his favorite or the Wilson children- he saw her hair, the hair that used to be as blonde as her father's but was now as white as snow.

Her eyes, which seemed to be an even paler blue than usual, were staring straight ahead. This worried the war veteran a great deal.

"What happened to your hair? Did your mother try to dye it, luv?"

She walked up to him, slowly, and he helped her get on his knee. She buried her face in his tunic and started crying. He held her for a moment, unsure of what to do. She didn't seem to be injured, but was in some sort of shock.

"Bang," she chocked down a sob, "Den mommy and daddy don' moves no more, no more!"

"Now calm down," he patted her back gently, "I'm sure your parents are just fine."

"Nuh-uh! I saw! Bang!" and she clung to him more tightly.

"How about we go and see you mum and dad?" he asked, "and then let's get you to a doctor," he said, more to himself than to Rose.

Then the shot, the Bang! In Rose's visions, was heard throughout the house.

The soldiers instincts kicked in- he could sort things out later. He stood up with Rose and sat her down in the office chair.

"Do not move from this spot!" and with that he ran out the door as fast as he could, carrying his gun with him.

Rose was alone and confused. Being five years old, she couldn't fully comprehend what she'd seen. A black pen was tossed aside on Wintergreen's desk. She stood up one the chair, and with some effort managed to reach the object with her short arms. She examined in for a moment or two, clicking it and retracting the tip up and down.

Then she stabbed her left eye with it.


End file.
